Rosamund (31 page)

“What if my uncle Henry comes calling?” the younger woman considered. “What if he steals Philippa away and weds her to his odious son? Oh, I do not like leaving my girls.”

“Your uncle is not well, according to the cook’s gossip, and he has his own troubles with that wife of his,” Maybel reminded her. “Besides, Edmund wouldn’t allow anyone to take the lasses. Now cease your fretting and finish your preparations for court. The queen’s escort will be here in only two more days.”

Rosamund sighed again. “I suppose that you are correct, as you always are, dear Maybel. There is nothing to be accomplished by my worrying. But I will far prefer the journey home.”

The next day the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn rode up to the manor house and walked boldly into the hall where Rosamund sat, polishing her
few jewels. She looked up, startled, but did not arise until she had put her baubles back into their velvet bag. “My lord Hepburn,” she said. “What brings you to Friarsgate?”

“Is it true?” he demanded to know.

She knew immediately what he meant, but said instead, “Is what true, my lord?”

“You are widowed again?” he replied, knowing that she had known what he meant. Was she being coy? Nay, not Rosamund. Which could only mean then that she was afraid of him. He softened his tone. “I am told that Sir Owein died in an unfortunate accident, lady. Had I known sooner I should have been here sooner to tender you my condolences.” The blue-blue eyes looked directly at her.

“Aye,” she admitted to him. “I am once more widowed. Is it not odd, my lord, that my husband who survived so many years, from the time he was but six years of age, in service to the Tudors, in both war and peace, should perish in so mundane an accident? He fell from a tree.” She laughed softly. “From the moment he came here he was an integral part of Friarsgate. Each autumn he climbed every tree in the orchards, picking the fruit from their tops and tossing them into the women’s aprons below. It was such an odd thing to do for a man who was a knight, but it gave him pleasure. The branch beneath him broke suddenly, and he fell.” She shook her heard wearily.

Logan Hepburn wanted to take the young woman before him into his arms and comfort her, but he knew he could not.
Not yet. Not now.
“I am sorry, my lady. Sir Owein was a good man.”

“Aye,” she responded, “he was.”

There was a silence between them for a long moment, and then he said, “If there is anything you need, my lady, any way in which my clansmen can aid you . . .” His voice trailed off.

Suddenly Rosamund smiled. “You are kind, Logan Hepburn,” she told him. “To come over the border to make such an offer says much to me about your character. Perhaps in the past I have misjudged you. I owe you an apology.”

“Nay, madame, I am every bit the rogue and rascal you have accused
me of being,” he told her with a wicked grin. “I have come not just to tender my sympathies, as I suspect you know. But now is not the time to pursue a suit with you.”

Rosamund blushed becomingly. Then she said, “Nay, it is not. I am leaving for court in a few days’ time, Logan Hepburn. I shall not return for several months.”

He was surprised by her revelation. She had said she was a friend of Margaret Tudor, but Margaret Tudor was Scotland’s queen. Was it Scotland’s court she meant? His heart beat faster. He had entrée into Jamie Stuart’s court through his cousin Patrick Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell. “You go to visit your friend, my queen?” he asked.

“Nay,” she replied, “I go to London.”

“I would not have thought you a lass for court,” he told her.

Rosamund smiled again, for she could not help herself. He was older than she. He was certainly bolder. Yet there was something about him that made her want to both kill him and kiss him. She blushed again. Now where had that thought come from? she wondered. “I am not a lass for court, my lord,” she told him, “but the queen has commanded my presence, and so I must go. Edmund tells me that you do not refuse a queen’s command, though I would if I could.”

Now how did this little country girl know England’s queen? But he could certainly not question her on the matter. He had no right, and she was not volunteering to tell him. “When you return from court, Rosamund Bolton, will you tell me so I may come and present myself before you?”

“My lord . . . ,” she began, but then words failed her.

“I have waited since I was a lad of sixteen for you, Rosamund, and I am not known to be a patient man. I will consider your sensibilities, but if you return with a new husband from the English court, I swear to you that I will slay him, for I mean to have you for myself!”

Now she was angry. “Why would I marry you?” she demanded to know. “I am English, and have my home here at Friarsgate. You are a Scot, and live God knows where!
Why,
my lord, I repeat, would I wed with you? I am not of a mind to wed again anyway.”

“You will wed me, Rosamund, because I love you, even as Sir Hugh and Sir Owein loved you. You take a man’s love for granted, lass, and you should not. Besides, you have an heiress for your manor while I have neither heir nor heiress for Claven’s Carn.”

“So, my lord, you see me as good breeding stock, do you?” she snapped at him. Oh, he was absolutely insufferable!

“If I just wanted to breed up more Hepburns, lass, I should have wed long ago. God knows the lasses have been throwing themselves at my head and climbing into my bed since I was fourteen and attained my great height. But I want only you for my wife.” He towered over her.

She glared up at him, hands on her hips, amber eyes blazing with her fury. “Am I supposed to be impressed by the knowledge that other women find you attractive, my lord?”

“You find me attractive,” he told her, a wicked smiled beginning to take over his face.

“I?”
she practically screeched the word. “
I find you attractive?
My lord, you have lost leave of your senses if you believe that.”

He knew even as he did it that he shouldn’t do it, but he could not help himself. He had to show this impossible lass the truth of the matter. Swiftly reaching out, he yanked her into his arms, his head spinning as the warm scent of white heather assailed his nostrils. He could feel the wondrous softness of her breasts against his hard chest. His mouth descended upon her sweet lips, and he kissed her as he had never before kissed any woman—with great depth of passion and with great tenderness. Then, as he looked down into the small heart-shaped face and the very startled amber eyes, he said, “Aye, Rosamund Bolton, you find me most attractive.”

She pulled from his embrace and slapped him with every ounce of strength that she had. “Get out of my hall, you . . . you . . .” She struggled for the word.
“You Scots scoundrel!”
Her dainty index finger pointed the way, and her color was most high.

He rubbed his cheek, amazed that she could hit so hard, and indeed the blow had hurt. He bowed to her with an elegant flourish. “I will be back, Rosamund, when you return from London. You had best prepare yourself
to become my wife, for my wife you shall be!” Then he turned and was gone.

If she had had something to throw at him she would have, Rosamund thought angrily. How dare he presume that she would marry him? She had no intention of ever marrying again. “I have grown weary of burying husbands,” she muttered to herself.

Maybel came into the hall. “I saw a man riding in,” she said. “Who was it?”

“Logan Hepburn,” Rosamund answered her.

“The Hepburn of Claven’s Carn? What did he want?”

“To pay his condolences,” Rosamund said shortly.

“And to plead his case with you, too,” Maybel responded with a chuckle.

“Do not speak on it!” Rosamund snapped. “I am glad now that I am leaving for court.”

Maybe raised an eyebrow and did not mention to her mistress that she had also seen their guest heading for the church where he would speak with Father Mata, she had not a doubt. Rosamund was to be gone in another day. There was no reason to set her temper aflame any more than it was now.

In the church the priest and the Hepburn embraced.

“Thank you for sending to me, brother,” Logan Hepburn said. “You did not tell me, however, that she was going to court in London.”

“You have found out on your own, then,” the priest answered, his eyes twinkling.

“What if they give her a new husband? And how does she know the Queen of England, too?” He wanted answers, and he was not going to obtain them from Rosamund. Mata was bound to him by blood. By the fact he was head of their clan branch. He would tell him.

Together the brothers sat in a narrow pew, and the priest began. “She met Katherine of Aragon when she was at court before her marriage to Sir Owein. She and Katherine and Margaret were just girls, but great friends. When Rosamund’s eldest daughter was born she sent to Katherine, the king’s mother, and the Queen of the Scots. All answered her, but
her heart was touched by the Spanish princess’ plight. She apologized for the poorness of her gift to the baby, but she explained she was in extreme financial straits. It seemed that old Henry and King Ferdinand were haggling over who should pay her allowance and her maintenance, so neither paid. The unfortunate princess was living from hand to mouth in the most abject poverty and her servants in rags because of it. The lady of Friarsgate was touched by the princess’ difficulties. She sent her a small purse, and continued to send what monies she could twice a year. The two women corresponded. When the lady Katherine, England’s queen, learned that her friend was once again a widow, she sent a very gracious purse, which she instructed the Lady Rosamund to spend on materials for court gowns, and she said she would send an escort for her. The escort should arrive tomorrow, Logan.”

“I will kill any husband they give her,” the Hepburn said quietly to the priest.

“And she ordered you from her hall, I am certain,” the priest said, laughing. “I do not believe that this Tudor king will send my lady back with a new husband. His father did because it was expected of him that he do so. My lady is yet mourning her husband, and the queen will understand her delicacy of feelings. Nay, brother, this will just be a social visit, and the Lady Rosamund will return as quickly as she can, for she does not enjoy the court or its inhabitants. She is of no importance in the scheme of things. The court is filled with snobs who make her feel as unimportant as she indeed is. Nay, she will return in a few months’ time to her beloved Friarsgate and darling daughters.”

“Who will she write?” he asked astutely.

“Edmund and Maybel. They will share their letters with me, and I will send to you with what you should know, Logan.”

“Good!” the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn said. “Now bless me, Mata, for I know I am in strong need of it.” He got up from the bench and knelt before his half-brother.

The priest stood, and placing both his hands on his older sibling’s head, he gave him his blessing and then told him, “Go with God, Logan, and try not to kill anyone.”

The Hepburn arose, chuckling, and replied, “I will try, Mata, but I dare not promise you, for you know how I am.”

“I do indeed,” the priest agreed as he walked with Logan Hepburn to the door of his church. The two men embraced a final time, and then, mounting his stallion, Logan Hepburn rode away from Friarsgate.

Rosamund watched him ride off from the window of her bedchamber. She stood thoughtfully, her pearwood hairbrush in her hand, stroking her long hair which she had unplaited. She had told Maybel she had a headache and would eat in her chamber, but the truth was she did not wish to discuss the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn with anyone. She was used to soft-spoken men who treated her gently. Logan Hepburn was not soft-spoken or self-effacing, as both Hugh and Owein had been. He was arrogant. There was simply no other word for it. He was bold, and he was arrogant. He did not use courtly language. Nay. He looked a person in the eye and spoke bluntly.

Yet was that a bad trait? Still, what right had he to come to her in her grief, and announce that he intended wedding with her? He had been waiting for her since he was sixteen, and had first seen her at age six at a cattle fair at Drumfrie. What nonsense! And women flung themselves at him. Well, perhaps that wasn’t nonsense. He was devilishly attractive with his wild dark hair and his blue-blue eyes. She never thought of his eyes as just plain blue. They were bluer than blue, like her lake itself. Her brush caught on a tangle, and Rosamund swore softly to herself. “This time,” she muttered as Logan Hepburn disappeared over the hill, “this time no one is going to plan for me or tell me who I will wed.” Hadn’t she already decided that there would be no next time? Rosamund swore again to herself.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what marriage to such a bold man would be like. They would fight she had not a doubt. And what was this Claven’s Carn like? There could surely be no place on the face of this earth that was as beautiful as Friarsgate. She knew enough of the Scots tongue to translate the meaning of his holding’s name.
Claven’s Carn
. It meant the
rocky hillock of the kites
. A kite was a bird of prey. She grimaced and wondered who had named it that. Nay, it would not be as
beautiful as her own Friarsgate, named for an ancient, long-gone monastery.

Tracez Votre Chemin.
Her family’s motto slipped into her thoughts. Well, wasn’t that what she was doing? She was making her own path, and it was past time that she did so. She had let other people make her decisions for far too long. But then, she was a woman, they kept reminding her, and women didn’t make their own decisions. That was up to the men in their lives.
Says who?
Setting down her brush she began to rebraid her hair once again.